


crossed the mountains and the seas

by dianying (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (in like.. flashbacks), Light Angst, M/M, hair petting, post-a4, winter soldier & falcon tv show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16762915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dianying
Summary: Sitting on the velvet green couch, Sam closes his eyes; Jamie’s head on his lap, fingers in his hair.





	crossed the mountains and the seas

**Author's Note:**

> 800 words of self indulge-y sambucky hair petting because i suck  
> also lemme ramble a bit: 'bucky' was steve's nickname for james. post-a4 and during the sambucky tv show, i'm assuming steve is dead and sam uses a different nickname for james-- jamie. 
> 
> title from 平凡之路 by 朴树

He has Jamie’s head in his lap. 

The motel couch is an odd olive-green colour, with a faded floral pattern, with velvet soft cushions and a dusty TV in front. Through the window Jamie had jimmied open because ‘it’s stuffy in here, good God’, Sam can hear the chitter of animals and the shh of wind weaving among the golden stalks of corn and the crescendoing whoosh of a car passing by, under the quiet babble of the TV. 

Sam cards his fingers through Jamie’s hair. It’s grown even longer since the end of the battle with Thanos, shaved side growing in thick and soft. He closes his eyes and he can see Jamie sitting in the passenger’s seat, ankles crossed, wind ruffling his wavy brown hair. It comes to past his shoulders now. There’s a thin scrap of a elastic Jamie keeps around his wrist, and sometimes he catches Sam staring when he pulls the elastic off to tie back his hair and _God_ , he just smiles. 

Jamie hums under his breath. Sam scratches at Jamie’s scalp, gently, tangling his fingers into thick hair. It’s all so smooth, like how Sam imagined ocean waves might feel, wavy but not knotted, liquid against his knuckles and slippery. 

They’re curled up on the soft green couch, Sam leaning against one arm, socked feet brushing the ground; and Jamie with his head cushioned in Sam’s lap and feet slung over the other arm. Sam watches as the triangle of orange light cuts across the matted (beige, green diamonds patterned across it) rug, sliding across the floor as the sun sinks under the mountains. It shines orangey-yellow against the wall through papery curtains, that wave in the light breeze. 

He rubs a lock of hair between his fingerpads and it’s soft and silky and so different from sand under his nails, sand gritting into his nailbeds, sand in his eyes and sand clinging to the blood from his knee. Sand in his throat when he screams and Riley plummets out of the sky like they never should, especially with their own wings strapped to their backs, but Riley had fallen anyways and Sam couldn’t catch him and Sam—

Something hundred days. He’d stopped counting at five hundred sixty eight. He doesn’t even remember when day 568 was— “Sammy, snap outta it,” Jamie’s whispering, tapping his cheek with a metal finger. Sam unclenches his fingers from Jamie’s scalp, because it’s shaking and Jamie probably knows but there’s something intact that wobbles on the edge and Sam doesn’t want to tip it over. Sammy. He clasps his hands together. The triangle of sun has disappeared, the entire room awash in the darkness kind of blue. Jamie peers up at him, blue eyes darker in the dim light. You okay? Sam drags his fingertips through Jamie’s hair and Jamie closes his eyes again. I’m fine. (Thank you. Thanks to you.)

He runs his fingers down the shorter, scruffier part of Jamie’s hair, on the side where he’d let the Shuri shave it off. They’ve been— on the run, isn’t quite the correct word, because they’re not really running from anything, just— (Steve’s dead, Steve’s cold body with the wound on his head and the wound in his chest and Sam looked down at himself because in that moment when he saw Steve’s cold body his chest opened like he’d been slashed there too. He turned to Jamie— _Bucky_ , and _Bucky_ had crumpled, knees in the dirt, shivering like his whole body is a wound.) —just. Running. Sam’s own hair is just scratchy, because he keeps his own cropped—

Sam digs his fingers through Jamie’s hair, he can feel his fingertips on his own thigh, and Jamie’s breathing makes his body move gently against Sam. It’s smooth now and smells like hotel shampoo, cold and crisp like silk sheets, but Sam shudders because he can suddenly feel the thick tangly warm feeling of what Jamie’s hair feels like when it’s not— not—

(A scraping wound to the back of Jamie’s head. Brick rubbed away the bit of his scalp, and blood mats his hair to the back of his neck and Sam has to hold his head steady as he runs water over his head and blood just continues to flow and Jamie doesn’t open his eyes and—)

The sun’s completely set, he can feel it from the change of the wind through the room— it’s colder, sharper, nighttime instead of evening. In the dim shades of the room that’s all shadow, Jamie’s eyelashes curl gently over his cheekbones and the shadows stretch long. His breaths stretch long too, gliding into the kind like sleep, and his lips part slightly. 

He brushes a stray hair away from Jamie’s face. 

(Sitting on the velvet green couch, Sam closes his eyes; Jamie’s head on his lap, fingers in his hair.) 

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter @[kingzhys](https://twitter.com/kingzhys)!


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